Chapter 184 Dancing the Same Script
Amelia had sized him up within seconds. The man they called Scarface might have once brushed shoulders with mercenary work, but if he had, it was at the lowest rung of the ladder—the kind of man who wanted the money without ever truly putting his life on the line. A pretender. A half-measure.
And now, he had crossed a line. He and his two thugs hadn't kidnapped some rival gang member or a wealthy businessman's heir. They had taken an old woman suffering from Alzheimer's.
They had locked Michael's grandmother in a windowless basement, the air damp and stale, forcing her to sleep on a bed of moldy straw. Every few hours, they had fed her another dose of sleeping pills, keeping her in a haze somewhere between consciousness and oblivion.
In Amelia's mind, taking two of Scarface's fingers was already merciful.
Scarface had never imagined that this pale, seemingly delicate young woman would strike with such precision and ruthlessness. The blade had risen and fallen without hesitation, cleaner and faster than most of the street enforcers he had worked alongside. In those few minutes, he had lost two fingers. And now he was wondering—what next? What part of him would she take if she decided she hadn't heard enough?
The thought chilled him. If she moved on to more… vital parts, it would be a fate far worse than death.
So this time, the moment the enforcer's hand left his mouth, Scarface blurted it out, voice cracking from pain and fear. "…I know him! I know this man!"
"I ordered my contacts back home to kill him today. They told me it was done."
"That's why I was shocked when I saw him still alive!"
The words spilled out of him in a rush, as if confessing could somehow buy him back his fingers. Vaughn's breath hitched sharply.
"You're telling me," Vaughn said, his voice low and dangerous, "that you ordered someone to kill me today?"
Amelia's expression hardened instantly. The knife's edge shifted, pressing against Scarface's throat. "Start from the top. Every detail."
Scarface's jaw tightened, but he knew there was no point holding back now. "The man who first hired us to take the old lady was Mr. Efrain Johnson. He promised us five million if we brought her back home safely. Later, he introduced me to another job."
"The contact was a woman. Her surname was Williams. That's all I know."
"She gave me detailed information about Mr. Vaughn's cruise today—where, when, everything. Told me to find an opportunity to take him out."
"So I arranged for my people back home to handle it. My contact later told me they pushed him overboard. Said there was no way he survived."
"I passed that news to Ms. Williams. She wired me one million dollars immediately. I have the chat logs and the transfer records on my phone."
The moment Scarface said the name Williams, Vaughn's body went rigid. The more he heard, the more disbelief crept into his face, his hands trembling slightly.
A woman who wanted him dead… with the surname Williams.
Vaughn's voice quavered. "How old is she?"
Scarface frowned, thinking. "Not sure exactly. From her voice, I'd say mid-twenties."
Unless someone was impersonating her or using a voice changer, the only woman who fit that description—the only one who could have ordered his death—was his own granddaughter. Anna.
Vaughn's chest heaved, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. He began to cough, unable to contain it.
"Mr. Williams," Amelia said softly.
She and Michael reached out at the same time, steadying him, patting his back. Vaughn lifted a hand to signal that he was fine, but his eyes were red.
Amelia held his gaze. "We can't be certain yet. Don't jump to conclusions."
Michael glanced toward one of his men. The man immediately produced a phone, placing it in front of Scarface. "Show us the chat logs and the transfer records."
Scarface complied. Once confirmed, the records were handed over to Amelia and Vaughn.
The messages matched Scarface's account—brief, cautious, and to the point. The sender had used an overseas number, and the bank account was offshore. Still, a million dollars was no small sum. Trace the money, and they could find the person behind it.
Just then, Michael's phone began to ring.
He glanced at the screen, his brow furrowing.
Amelia's eyes flicked to him. "Your uncle?"
Michael nodded. His gaze sharpened as he spoke to his men. "Take them away. Lock them up. Keep them under watch. I'll deal with them later."
"Yes, sir."
The orders were executed without hesitation. Scarface and his men were led out, while another enforcer began wiping down the blood from the hardwood floor. In under two minutes, the living room was spotless again, as if the violence had never happened.
Only Michael, Amelia, and Vaughn remained.
The phone kept ringing. Michael finally answered, putting it on speaker. "Hello?"
"Michael," Efrain's voice oozed through the line, mocking and slick. "Took you long enough to pick up. Busy?"
"So it's you, Uncle," Michael said evenly. "Sorry—no contact name saved. Thought it was a spam call."
"You—"
The words caught in Efrain's throat. The jab had landed. After a brief pause, he let out a cold laugh. "Hmph. Years go by, and I don't know if your skills have improved, but your mouth certainly has."
"Thanks for the compliment," Michael replied, his tone smooth. "But if we're talking about running your mouth without lifting a finger, I'm nowhere near your level."
Efrain's calm faltered for a moment. He hadn't expected Michael to bite back so quickly. His grip on the phone tightened. But then he eased back into his composure.
Because in his mind, the most important leverage—the grandmother—was still in his hands. He wanted to see how long Michael could keep that bravado once he heard the truth.
"Michael, I hear you've been in Sulien all week," Efrain said casually. "What's the Johnson family up to here?"
"You resigned from the board long ago," Michael said, his voice turning cold. "I don't owe you any explanations."
Efrain chuckled. "Fine. Let's skip the small talk."
"I know you came to Sulien because your grandmother disappeared from the nursing home. Don't you want to know where she is now?"
Michael's gaze slid to Amelia, then toward the bedroom where his grandmother rested. Of course he knew where she was.
He turned back to the phone, drawing in a slow breath, letting his voice tremble just enough to sell the act. "You… know where she is?"
It sounded like he was barely holding himself together—anger and desperation bleeding through.
It was all an act.
Amelia's eyes narrowed slightly, one brow lifting. She hadn't realized until now that Michael wasn't just sharp-tongued—he could act.